


Veneralia

by Romanumeternal



Series: Olia and Quintus [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, F/M, Non-Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-07-02 03:50:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15788358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romanumeternal/pseuds/Romanumeternal
Summary: A crippled son of a senator, Quintus Antonius Amelius Callarius, realises he is more attracted than he should be to one of his family's slaves.





	Veneralia

Well, sorry I've been away for a bit. So here's some touchingly awkward stuff between Olia and Quintus, whom I've realized has some pretty major self esteem issues.

  


Quintus eyed the exercise machine in the corner with a sour expression. It loomed, like an ancient engine of torture; in its centre a seat, with a row of cylindrical weights behind it. The rational, scientific part of Quintus' mind knew there was probably no relation between his exercise of the last evening and his sudden, painful relapse. After all, he spent a good hour most days when he could working out.  And most times when he exercised, he did not wake up the next morning with leaden limbs which sent bolts of pain into his body whenever he tried to move them.

 

 

But still, that was what had happened to him. He had woken, and just about managed to change into a tunic and trousers, the effort of that making him feel as thought he'd run an assault course after drinking heavily the previous night. He'd then collapsed into a padded armchair, heart thumping, sweat beading on his forehead, realising with a sinking sensation that going downstairs for breakfast would be a challenge, and as for leaving the house - well, forget it. He'd called Lukaminka, who had, he presumed, dutifully relayed the rest of the message, before joining the rest of the household at the festival. No doubt, he thought slightly sourly, Lukaminka was already opening her legs, Marius was surrounded by a small crowd of advisers, and his sister Julia was pretending not to be overjoyed at receiving garlands of flowers with tedious romantic poetry.

 

Besides, he thought to himself, why would you want to leave anyway? Its only the Veneralia. And it isn't as if you have anything to celebrate in that regard.

 

He was, he knew, not especially good looking - at least, when compared with Marius or Tiberius, or most of his friends. He was overly scrawny, he knew, with wasted muscles that sometimes twitched or spasmed unexpectedly, which ached or suddenly leaked strength with no warning. The Veneralia, where statues of Venus were adorned with flowers, where couples exchanged gifts and vows and verses, and which tradition dictated to be the best time to declare one's love, was hardly a holiday designed for him.

He clamped down, firmly, on that thought, as it threatened to mutate into self pity, for exactly the same reason he regularly returned to the torture of the machine in the corner. His tutor had put it to him crisply a few years ago, when a combination of resentment, misery and despair had turned him into a person that the older Quintus could not think about without cringing  in embarrassment.

  


_You can't choose not to be a cripple. You choose to be a weakling. A cripple can be worthwhile, but a whining, pathetic weakling is fit only for a mercy centre. You choose the path of honour and hardship and maybe, just maybe, making something out the bricks Life gave you, or you choose the path of pointless resentment and self indulgent self pity and being of no use to yourself, your family or the Republic. So choose._

Still, he allowed, it would be nice to have someone. Not just for the sex, either - although that too would be nice, and hearing Marius and Lukaminka going at it late at night was annoying for a whole range of reasons unrelated to the actual noise. But also someone to lie with him, someone to be with, someone he could be open to in a way he couldn't with his friends or father or tutor.

He could, he supposed, have ordered one of the slaves to his bed. Hades, if Marius wasn't utterly lying, Lukaminka would barely need the order - although he would concede that might be something more to do with Marius than anyone else, and Luka's reaction might be rather different if it was him. But...Luka might be good for the sex, he reasoned, but not much else beyond that - Hades, she was dimmer than a burnt out lightbulb.

 

 

And besides, what would people think? That he hadn't got any hope of finding a free citizen to accept him, that his only recourse was in an order?

 

 

Not that he had any objection to using Luka - or for that matter any other slave - for that purpose, but it did strike him as somewhat undignified.

 

He shook his head, slightly annoyed at himself for this self pitying thought, and resolved to read some improving literature instead. He picked up a book, showing a picture of the grim faced, moustached Hallarticus, and titled Hallarticus' Great Purges. It was, Quintus reckoned, an interesting but hardly cheerful tale, which started with the elimination of radicals and revolutionaries, then the sweeping away of defiant aristocrats and politicians, before the slaughter of members of his own movement, anyone who spoke ill of him and, after the defeat at Kronshtaal, the military high command itself. He personally rather admired Hallarticus; he had at least restored the State to its rightful and destined position as the world's greatest power, but even he would admit he waded through rivers of blood to do it, and had gone utterly mad by the end.

 

He had just started on the first great show trial, or as Hallarticus had named it, the 'Trial of the Aristocrat-Radical Alliance of Traitors and Parasites',  when there was a knock on the door. 

He glanced up. 

 

"Come in."

 

The door opened, and in came Olia. Quintus smiled as she did so, and she smiled back.

 

His heart gave a little flutter. There was something so radiant when she smiled. As for when he made her laugh - well, that made his heart skip a beat. And there was that way she tossed her hair, and frowned when she was concentrating, and that half smile she sometimes gave; almost a challenge, with her head cocked, very slightly, to one side.

 

Which was, Quintus knew, ridiculous. She was a slave, when all was said and done, no matter how attractive and smart she was. No matter how much he often looked forward to her coming in, even if it was just to clean his room, and even if they did sometimes spend ages chatting, even when Quintus felt she could have completed her work in a quarter of the time. No matter if there had been a couple of times that Olia had had problems grasping some difficult mathematical lessons, and rather than be exasperated, as Quintus felt he normally would be when someone failed to grasp what was absolutely intuitive, he was pleased to be able to help her. No matter if, watching her, Quintus sometimes found himself watching her body, and wondering what she might look like if she wasn't wearing that gray, scratchy slave tunic.

 

"Morning, Olia."

 

"Good morning sir. Did you sleep well?"

He smiled. "Like a log, but I'm as tired as if I hadn't slept for a week."

 

Olia frowned. "You really should have said, sir. I'd have been pleased to make you up something. Tell you what, I'll go downstairs and make you an omelette."

 

"Honestly, I'm not feeling too hungry."

 

"You should still eat, sir."

 

He smiled. That was another thing about Olia he liked. She was, usually, caring. Oh, the others were too, of course, but Olia was always asking after his health. He clamped down on that thought. It was, he reminded himself sternly, probably because she was a slave, and simply seeking favour. Like when she laughed at his jokes. In all honesty, she probably found them slightly tiresome.

 

"If you insist.." he said. "Are you off?"

 

She shook her head. "No, sir. Sia had a couple of minor errands for me to do, and besides the dominus hates to leave you alone."

 

"Drew the black stone, did you?"

 

Olia grinned. "Well, actually, I asked to."

"Oh Gods, why?"

 

Olia opened her mouth, and then shut it again.

 

"Oh, no reason, sir. Just...I don't know. Didn't feel like going." She looked at him expectantly for a minute, and then bit her lip.

"Don't blame you. I mean, roses and romantic poetry?" he sniffed. Olia snorted.

 

"Exactly, sir. Have you got any plans for the day?"

 

Quintus shrugged. "Hardly. Yourself? Aside from making omelettes?"

 

"Neither that or Sia's chores will keep me long" she said. She walked over, very close to Quintus, and for a moment he caught a sniff of her perfume. A cheap, vanilla scent, which even a plebian slut from the slums, he thought, might think twice about wearing. But somehow, when it was worn by Olia, very close to him...

 

He blinked, tried to get the images that conjured up - of a naked, lithe Olia, smelling of vanilla, lying on his bed - out of his mind.

 

"So no, nothing much" Olia finished. "Might try casting some strange, Atzlanian blood magic as a love spell."

 

"You don't need that" said Quintus. "Pretty sure any man would fall for you."

 

There was a silence, and inwardly Quintus cursed himself. Gods above, how stupid was he? It sounded like the worst kind of trite, romantic babble. What on Earth had possessed him to say that? 

 

But, for some reason, Olia just smiled.

 

"Sadly, sir, you'd be wrong. Much as I hate to contradict you." She paused. "I mean, I know my place. I know I'm not supposed to have a man in mind. That's the job of you and your father, sir."

 

Quintus raised his eyebrows, and for a moment there was a look of - if not alarm, then perhaps worry - before he shrugged and smiled. He knew Olia was intelligent, and believed that whilst she might respect her owners, she was certainly not the sort to wholeheartedly accept her slavery. That, really, did not overly concern him. He had no problem with slavery, it was the natural state of things after all, but he wasn't naive enough to believe even well treated, polite serviles like Olia were wholeheartedly in agreement with that sentiment.

 

And besides, whilst he knew of course slaves were there to serve their betters in whatever way was desired, the idea of applying that to Olia seemed...off, somehow. She was sweet, and had a lovely smile, and the thought of some man forcing their overweight, hairy body against hers whilst she tried not to sob sent a sick feeling through him.

 

Briefly, a thought rose to the top of his mind. He was, after all, the son of a Senator. All he had to do was ask her to strip, and then he could have a very enjoyable Veneralia. For a moment, he was almost tempted.

 

Except, of course, it wouldn't be enjoyable for her, and she'd be shamed, miserable and (probably) quietly loath him ever after. He reached inside his thoughts, wrapped an iron hand around the skull of that base urge, and crushed it utterly, ashamed he'd even let it slither into his mind in the first place. 

 

"I think my father has more important things to worry about" he said, instead. Olia raised her eyebrows, and for a moment, Quintus had the uncomofrtable feeling Olia knew exactly what he had been thinking.

 

"And you, sir?"

 

 

"And I what?"

 

"Do you worry about me, sir?" she asked, smiling, taking another step closer. "Worry about who to ask me to sleep with?"

 

 

"Um...well..." stammered Quintus, and then shook his head definitely. "No, of course not. I've never given any thought to it. So far as I'm concerned...well, its none of my business."

 

She flicked her eyes to the ceiling, briefly, and Quintus had the sensation he was missing something, some subtext, and then she was leaning into him.

 

"Well, now I am curious sir. It is Veneralia, and you're a man now. And I belong to your father." She kneeled down next to him, and suddenly Quintus was looking directly into her dark face, almond eyes looking straight into his, as though she was peering into his mind. Her mouth quirked. "I know you could order me, if you wanted to, sir." Her glance took in the bed, and suddenly, Quintus knew absolutely what she was implying.

 

It was ridiculous, he told himself, his mind searching for reasons why the world suddenly seemed to have gone mad. He was a cripple, by Romulus above, a twitching mockery of a man whom he knew more than few would think should have been sent to a Mercy Centre long ago. Whilst Olia was, beautiful, and sweet, and if not for her status would not be so much out of his reach as beyond sight.

 

He shook his head, part of him wondering why Olia had even brought the subject up, part of him bemusedly wondering what expression her face would assume if he did give the order. 

 

"I don't want to order you" he said, his voice assuming a sudden, cold sharpness.

 

Olia gaped, and then her expression collapsed. She hung her head, biting her lip. For a moment, Quintus wondered if her eyes filled with tears, but maybe it was just a trick of the light. Her voice, normally so self assured, shook.

 

"I....see" she said, miserably. She swallowed. "Ah. I see...sir? Can I ask a favour?"

 

Quintus shrugged.

 

"Please don't...mention this to the others, please? I...well, I made a mistake, I think, and said..."

 

"Don't worry" said Quintus, still somewhat confused as to why Olia was miserable about his refusal. "Of course I won't."

 

"You really don't want me?" she asked, almost plaintively. "I thought-"

 

Quintus gaped, as a mad, stupid thought took root in his mind, and then reached out a hand, grasping Olia's, looking at her sceptically.

 

"Of - of course I do."

Olia frowned.

"But, sir, you said-"

 

"I said I wouldn't order you - well, to have sex with me. I mean, I might order you to make a drink, or clean, or I don't know, or" He paused, aware he was gabbling. " I never would order you to do that."

 

 

"Exactly, sir. You'd never order-"

 

Quintus closed his eyes, wondering how best to phrase it. Because it was true, he did want Olia. Obviously, at some point, he'd sustained a major head injury and was now happily hallucinating that Olia would more than grimly tolerate his pawing.

 

_Well, if its a hallucination, might as well enjoy it._

 

"I said I'd never _order_ you, Olia" he said, stressing the verb. "And I never will."

 

He stood up, still slightly unsteady on his legs, and kissed her.  



End file.
